


Blackout

by Bohemienne



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Angst and Porn, Explicit Sexual Content, Frottage, Howling Commandos - Freeform, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, WWII Stucky, World War II, post-serum Bucky, pre-Winter Soldier Bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-15
Updated: 2016-07-15
Packaged: 2018-07-24 05:41:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7496040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bohemienne/pseuds/Bohemienne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>London, 1943. After Steve rescued his division from the Hydra labor camp, Bucky seems healthier than ever. He knows differently. There's a fire burning inside of him, and he fears it will consume him. When he and Steve seek shelter together during an air raid, he knows he has one last chance to tell Steve the truth before the smoke clears and he's lost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blackout

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sure this idea's been done to death, but I had to get the story out of me. Also, this was going to be all angst, but fortunately these nerds had other plans. ;) Unrelated to any of my other works.
> 
> <3 [Bohemienne](http://starandshield.tumblr.com)

**London – Late Autumn, 1943**

It was a funny thing, walking around London. One minute, the city was there—tidy white stone, tamed hedges, wrought iron gates, all prim and fucking proper—and then suddenly there was a pile of rubble spilling out into the street. London smelled of smoke and iron and the dying leaves, it stank of fear, and Sergeant Barnes smelled it all. It burned inside him worse than cheap cigarettes. He needed an escape.

His skin felt too tight—that’s what it was. Trying to contain something he was never meant to be. Medical had given him a clean bill of health after the labor camp—healthy as a horse, better even than he ought to be, they said, given all he’d been through—but they must have missed something. He was rotting from the inside out. Like a dead rat in a Brooklyn alley, maggots writhing their way free. He’d split open any minute if he couldn’t find some release.

Sometimes he prayed for the sirens to scream so he’d have an excuse to get away from it all. Lock himself in a cellar and let the bombs fall. It was better than waiting around for the colonel to hand down their next mission brief, or watching Steve and his dame make eyes across the war room. One night, he told himself, he wouldn’t take shelter. He’d stand on the streets with his arms raised and welcome his goodbye. Just a rumble and then fire and then silence. Anything to stop the sound of his own pulse ticking in his ears, counting down.

He hesitated half a block from the pub entrance. It was always his last refuge, when the dance halls felt like suffocating and his bunk rang with the dark. Yet he must have been leaning on it way too heavily—the drinks barely seemed to touch him now. He’d pour glass after glass of bourbon into himself until the bartender started to give him lip and the rest of the guys had long since drowsed off in their seats.

But he couldn’t bear the thought of one more night staring at the ceiling, watching the lights dance across his room. Another night wearing a smile like a cross and tossing out the same damn lines he’d used in another city, another life. Bucky had no more patience for it. He just needed to burn and burn.

And then, through the pub’s windows, he saw Steve Rogers hunched at the bar.

Bucky smoothed his hair in the soot-stained window and straightened his dress uniform tie. The pub was emptier than usual, and his footsteps sounded like drumbeats on the old wood. “Look at you, livin’ low with the enlisted men.” He slid onto the stool at Steve’s right. The smile he forced didn’t hurt so much when he was wearing it for Steve. “Your dame tied up at base?”

Steve’s mouth twisted to one side and he laughed into his drink. “Not exactly. She, uh—said never to speak to her again.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow. _Don’t get your hopes up, Barnes._ He’d never seen Steve dote on a broad like that, and they were sure to patch it up in no time. Yet he hated the hope it gave him, the faint flutter in his pulse.

“And then she shot at me,” Steve said. “Well, my shield.”

Something loosened in Bucky’s chest. He motioned to the bartender for his usual—two fingers of bourbon. Steve was nursing a scotch, its peaty smell a nice reprieve from the bloody city stink. Bucky leaned toward him, two brothers sharing a secret. So he told himself.

“So you fucked it up already? Come on, man. I thought I taught you better than that.”

“It wasn’t on purpose!” Steve cried. He turned toward Bucky with his eyes gleaming, mischievous. He never looked more like the scrawny, scrappy Stevie he used to be so much as when he grinned like this. “One of the secretaries at the war room, well, she—she just kind of pulled me aside. It wasn’t my idea, but it would’ve been rude—”

The tightness returned. Not like he should be surprised. He saw the way heads turned everywhere Steve went—the women catching their lips in their teeth and sucking in their breath. It was like everything Steve had always carried inside, all that goodness and stubbornness and righteousness and gorgeousness, was finally on the outside as well. His sunlight was no longer a secret that only Bucky knew.

He should be thrilled. Steve deserved the world, and finally it was spread before him like a red carpet. But Bucky had always known. When they had nothing else in the world, Steve was his, his brother and his confidant, and while Steve didn’t know it, he’d claimed Bucky’s heart for good. It twinged in him, caught between jealousy and envy.

“It would have been _rude_ ,” Bucky repeated. “Well, what, did you actually like kissing this other dame?”

Steve’s cheeks flushed red. Used to be a time he blushed with his whole body, Bucky thought. “It wasn’t unpleasant.”

Bucky swallowed down his first retort with bourbon. “Steven Rogers. You still don’t know a fucking thing about broads.”

“Yeah, well. Maybe it’s not the most important thing right now.”

Their eyes met. The alcohol burned in Bucky’s stomach, but his senses were still sharp, too sharp, prickling at his skin. The way Steve looked at him often seared him that way, like Steve was seeing straight through him, prying back his mask. It scared him in the best of times. But now, with this— _thing_ inside of him—

He had to talk about, think about, anything else.

“Should be a good trip, Tuesday,” Bucky said, after scanning the bar to see if anyone was listening too closely. Loose lips sank ships, and all that. “Looking forward to seeing Jacques’ new toy.”

Steve tilted his head, assessing. That faraway look he got when he had Bucky’s number, or so it seemed. “Yeah. We’re really making a difference.” Finally, he seemed to relax, shoulders rolling back, and he raised his glass toward Bucky. “And it means the world to me that you’re here to help.”

His jaw screwed shut. The smell of chemicals and bile in his throat and that awful machine rumbling to life and straps too tight around his limbs—

“All thanks to you.” He clapped Steve on the back. “Any fight you think worth fighting—well, that’s my fight, too.”

Steve finished his scotch and exhaled. Bucky felt the rise and fall of Steve’s chest as if it were his own, his senses on high alert. “I don’t know. I’d say you’ve been through enough.”

Not this again. “I’m not gonna sit on the sidelines while you risk your life. Just like you didn’t want to do back before, when I shipped off—remember that?”

“If you talked to Phelps,” Steve said, “I’m sure he could place you on desk duty. Cryptography work, maybe. You’ve always had a head for math. No need putting you in any more danger than you’ve already been in.”

He knew damn well Phelps would give him that—and more besides. The truth was, after Azzano, they’d offered him an honorable discharge and a ticket back to New York. And that was even with Bucky glossing over the details of just what Hydra had done to him. But he’d turned it down, pointing to his vitals, assuring them he was sound of body and mind—god, what a lie he’d had to sell, but it was worth it. It was always worth it for Steve.

“You asked for my help,” Bucky reminded him. “And you know how well we work together. A well-oiled machine. What have I got to go home to, anyway? Everyone who matters to me—” He winced. “They’re right here.”

Steve’s smile unfolded. It was like a sail, carrying Bucky back home. Because this was home. Here, at Steve’s side. “Thank you, Buck. I mean it.”

“I know you do.” He twisted toward Steve. “I’ve saved your sorry ass enough as it is. I’ve got a system down. No sense in you training someone else, huh?”

Steve laughed at that, and waved the bartender down for another round. “Well, when this is all over and we _do_ go home . . .”

The thing in Bucky bristled. Restless. He couldn’t even think about it, not yet. Living his old life—some strange ritual that seemed to belong to someone else. Losing his reason to stay at Steve’s side day and night. And London was bad enough—who would he be in New York, rotted and unclean? How could he live without a rifle strapped to his back and this need for vengeance clenched in his fist, beating, bloody and raw?

“I’m not . . .” He let out his breath. He’d been lying too much to Steve, lately. It never stopped hurting when he did. “I’m not ready to go home.”

Steve fell quiet, and glanced down at his drink. The sconces caught the golden fringe of his lashes and the faint pink of his lips. It wasn’t the booze—it couldn’t be the booze—but Bucky was overcome with a need to taste those lips. A need he’d always shoved deep down. But everything was rising to his surface these days, refusing to stay buried. He felt it reeling him in.

“I know what you mean,” Steve said softly. “I’m not ready, either.”

The fire in Bucky lapped at him, goading him on. He leaned closer. Close enough to smell the smoky scotch on Steve’s breath. To see his pupils widen as his face turned to Bucky’s.

“As long as we’re at war,” Bucky said, “I still have you.”

Before Steve could answer, the lights stuttered and went dark.

The other pub patrons shouted, and someone broke a glass. Steve scrambled to his feet as the air raid sirens started up. “Basement,” the bartender shouted. “Everybody into the basement! Follow my voice!”

Steve reached for Bucky’s hand. Their fingers locked together in the darkness, though it wasn’t as dark as it should have been. Everyone looked edged in gray to Bucky’s eyes. “It’s all right,” Bucky said. He felt far too calm; the other patrons were twitching with nervous energy as they bumped and banged their way toward the basement stairs. “It’s gonna be just fine.”

“Wait. Officers’ barracks are half a block away, underground,” Steve said. “We can wait it out there. Maybe get some sleep before tomorrow’s brief.”

That made Bucky’s breath hitch, but he nodded, then realized Steve probably couldn’t see him. “Sounds good. Lead the way.”

They rushed out to the street; only a few poor souls darted along the sidewalks in search of the closest Tube stations and other shelters. The sirens’ wails swirled around them with the fog as they bounced off the stone buildings. No Luftwaffe engines roaring overhead just yet, but they’d be along within half an hour, tops. In the dead of a sleepless night, their churn sounded like a lullaby to Bucky. They coaxed him to sleep and promised him a swift end. But now, he wanted them to take their time, let him steal a minute or an hour with Steve without the rest of the world crowding in.

They reached the barracks gates, and the MP ushered them toward the stairs. “You came just in time. We were about to lock the gates,” the MP said. But then his eyes darted toward Bucky. “Wait—I’m sorry, Sergeant, you aren’t allowed down here—”

“He’s my guest,” Steve said, tone pointed.

The MP stammered, pausing on the staircase, but then nodded. “Right. Of course, Captain Rogers. My mistake.” He saluted, then headed back up the stairs to secure the compound.

Bucky scanned the concrete corridor, lit only by the weak emergency lights strung at intervals along the wall. Steve fumbled with his keys and unlocked his room, then swept his hand forward. “After you.”

“Wow,” Bucky said, taking in the dark chamber. His eyes adjusted quickly, picking out the faint shapes of the room. If Steve were lying in the twin bed alongside one wall, he could probably reach the drawers and desk on the other side. “How . . . spacious. Not that I’m one to judge,” he added. “My bunk sleeps six.”

Steve offered him an apologetic grin. “You got a lighter? There should be candles in the right-hand drawer.”

Bucky pulled the drawer open and groped around to find a couple of fat candles and set them on the desktop. With the door closed, he was practically pressed up against Steve, with barely enough room for them to stand in the space between bed and desk. Steve took up so much more space, now. There used to be a time he could sleep at the foot of Bucky’s bed, curled up like a cat almost, their legs sometimes tangling together in the night. But after they got to be about twelve, it didn’t seem right to do that anymore—or rather, Bucky’s pops said it didn’t seem right. They hadn’t shared a bed since.

The flint of Bucky’s lighter sparked, painfully bright against the pitch black, and he lit the two candles. The shadows melted back from Steve’s face, his expression stoic as ever. Bucky swallowed away the heaviness in his throat. They kicked off their shoes and hats, same as they always did when crashing at one another’s homes. There was comfort in the routine, Bucky thought, but also danger. He could almost believe he wasn’t poisoned, he wasn’t running from that life.

The concrete vibrated around them. The Luftwaffe had arrived, then.

“There’s a bottle of Laphroaig in the bottom drawer,” Steve said, voice taut. “Might help your nerves.”

It wasn’t the air raid that was making him nervous, but Bucky slid the drawer open and reached inside. He had to shove aside one of Steve’s sketchbooks to fish the bottle out. His fingers hesitated, grazing over the battered cover. He used to be Steve’s ready subject, donning whatever goofy pose or expression Steve liked to help him practice. He wondered what other faces, what strangers, he’d find within the pages now.

“No glasses, I’m afraid,” Steve said.

Bucky smiled wearily. “I promise I don’t have cooties.” He uncorked the bottle and took a swig. Then coughed. “God. You and your scotch.” He held the bottle toward Steve, but Steve shook his head.

“Keep it. Isn’t going to help me through the blitz anyway.”

Bucky managed a weak smile at that. “Well, at least sit down, or something. You’re making me nervous.”

Steve sank onto the edge of the mattress. “Better?”

Bucky swung himself up to sit on top of the desk, facing him, his knees inches from Steve’s. The candlelight danced and tossed strange shadows over them, mirroring what Bucky felt inside. For once, he didn’t know what to say. He’d stolen a few minutes alone with Steve, no orders to carry out, no one coming to whisk Steve away, and all he could think about was the flame licking him inside and everything on the edge of his hearing—Steve’s breath, the rustle of fabric as he shrugged undid the buttons on his officer’s jacket, the distant rumble of planes—

“Maybe this is what we were meant for,” Steve said. His jacket hung open now, and he leaned against the wall and propped his feet up beside Bucky on the desk. “I mean—literally, it’s why they created me. But what I mean is that maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to keep fighting like this. Even after the war is won.”

 _If_ the war was won. “I’m sure they’ve got big plans for you. Fightin’ crime, maybe, or selling more bonds.”

“I don’t know why you couldn’t do it, too. Or—or all of the Commandos,” he added quickly. “Seems a waste otherwise, is all.” Steve shrugged his shoulders. “Just thinking out loud. It’s hard to imagine going home again, like you said.”

Bucky took another swig. “I’m trying to enjoy the moment while I can.”

Steve nudged Bucky’s thigh with his foot. “Your brush with death change your outlook on life?”

“Sure.” He stared at the wall. “Taught me not to take a damn thing for granted.”

Steve tipped his head back against the wall. A dull impact rumbled through the room—a bomb landing, detonating, tearing some corner of London apart. Bucky’s knotted-up nerves still wanted to run toward the fire, but he forced himself to focus on Steve. The shadows that curved along his crisp jawline and exposed throat.

He couldn’t take Steve for granted any longer. But he feared it was too late for that. The rest of the world had claimed Steve now, and he was slipping away.

“Steve . . .”

Steve’s gaze flicked toward him as another bomb rumbled.

“Doesn’t it ever get to you? Suddenly being everyone’s hero. Their darling golden boy.”

 _He’s always been your golden boy_ , the thing inside Bucky said. _But you never appreciated it. And now you’re something, someone else._

Steve thinned his lips as he thought. “No.—I don’t know.” He angled his face toward Bucky, eyes dark and glittering. “You’ll always remind me where I came from.”

“Damn right. Can’t let you getting too big of a head, huh?” Bucky patted Steve’s calf beside him on the desk, then let his hand rest there. He swallowed, throat tightening. Steve was carved from marble, now, and sometimes felt just as cold. Tonight, though, his warmth seeped into Bucky’s fingertips, and he couldn’t make himself let go.

“Not just that.” Steve smiled. “You’re my—anchor, I guess. You help me remember myself.” He looked away. “Before I snuck into that Hydra camp, I was just somebody’s dancing monkey, forgetting the whole reason I’d wanted to fight. But you helped me remember.”

“By getting my dumb ass captured, you mean.”

Steve laughed faintly. “Something like that.”

The next explosion rang through the narrow room—far, far too close. Bucky blinked, and saw fire behind his eyelids and a man with a syringe. His nails dug into Steve’s calf as he tried to hold himself in the present. But it was always the same thing waiting for him in the dark, the answer to all the questions he didn’t want to ask.

He was being eaten alive. By something they did to him, or the memory of it, or the truth of what he’d never be, never possibly could become. It was devouring him, and he’d never rip it out.

“Buck . . .”

Bucky clenched his teeth until his jaw throbbed. Fixed his gaze on Steve. Slowly, he forced himself to pry his fingers off of Steve’s leg.

“Sorry, I just—it makes me jumpy sometimes, is all.” Bucky shrugged with a casualness that stung.

Steve patted the mattress beside him. “C’mere.”

Bucky took another swig of scotch. The bed was so narrow, with Steve’s new bulk. His pops’s voice rang in his head, telling him it wasn’t right. That he shouldn’t spend so much time with that Rogers kid, he should be chasing girls and making a man of himself and facing the real world.

But Bucky never wanted anything so much as to bask in Steve’s glow. It blinded him, sometimes, but it always kept him warm.

He set the bottle aside and slipped onto the bed, leaving a hand’s breadth between them as he pressed his back against the wall and curled his fists into his lap. Steve regarded him for a moment, then slung his arm around Bucky’s shoulder. As Steve pulled him under his arm, Bucky’s pulse skipped.

“You used to get so scared of thunderstorms,” Bucky said after a moment. God, the silence between them was too painful. He had to fill it up. He couldn’t give Steve a chance to change his mind, decide they were too close. “Do you remember that?”

Steve rested his temple against Bucky’s crown. “Is that what this is like for you?”

It was like a blue beam of energy slicing through the night and tearing his battalion apart. It was holding his hands in surrender and the straps pulling tight at his wrists. It was knowing he’d never, ever see Steve, see home, again.

“I don’t think there’s any going home for me.” Bucky spoke the words into Steve’s side. No more lying. If this thing was going to devour him, then Steve deserved his honesty.

“What . . . ? No, come on. Don’t be ridiculous. It looks bad now, but we’ll win this thing.” Steve’s mouth moved against his hair. “I’ve got you on my side. Nothing can stop us.”

Bucky twisted his head to look at Steve directly. His mouth was dark in the shadows, a well Bucky wanted to fall down. The smell of smoky scotch hung thick between them, and Bucky wanted to breathe it till he choked. He reached up and let his fingers trail against the smooth plane of Steve’s cheek; when Steve’s eyelids sank closed, he dared to think—to pretend—

“They lit a fire in me,” Bucky whispered. “I can feel it burning. Like a fuse.”

Steve’s eyes opened, and the apple of his throat bobbed. “What are you . . . Bucky, you’re fine. The medics gave you a clean bill of health.”

He shook his head. He was going to burst with all the things he needed to say—every truth he needed to tell Steve before it ate him up. “I knew I’d lose you someday, but I didn’t want it to be like this.” Steve carried on everyone’s shoulders in a victory cheer while he watched from the shadows. “I can’t—pretend anymore.”

Steve’s lower lip twitched. “What are you pretending?”

Bucky closed his eyes and felt the flames under his skin sear at him. It didn’t matter. One way or another, he was going to burn.

He wouldn’t take this truth with him. He couldn’t bury it anymore.

“Steve.” He opened his eyes. “You’re all I’ve ever wanted, and I gotta cling to that until I burn up.”

Steve’s mouth parted, and he stayed still—too still. Finally, he rubbed his hand along Bucky’s arm and pressed his lips against his temple. “You don’t mean this.” His voice was watery. “You’re drunk.”

“That’s just it. I’m not.” He pressed his hand against Steve’s chest, full where it once was hollow. He used to be afraid Steve would shatter, but now he was the one made of glass.

“You’re—you’re not going to lose me.” Steve pulled him closer. “I’m right here.”

Steve’s nose traced against his temple, his cheek. His touch was like a storm, washing away Bucky’s fear. Maybe he wasn’t so crazy to feel what he felt. Maybe, just maybe, Steve felt it, too.

“We’ll make it through this,” Steve said. “You’ll see.”

“But you don’t see. I’m already losing you.” Bucky’s fingers curled around Steve’s tie. “I’d fight a thousand wars if it meant a few more days with you. But the minute we stop . . .” He flinched, his whole body trembling under Steve’s arm. “Then you’ll be gone.”

Steve’s silence gnawed and gnawed at him as those shadowed eyes searched his face. Then Steve reached up with his free hand; brushed a stray curl back from Bucky’s forehead. His palm cupped Bucky’s cheek, thumb brushing against his jaw.

“Maybe I don’t have to be.”

Bucky bit the inside of his cheek as Steve’s thumb pressed under his chin, tilting it up. Their lips were so close, a question dancing in Steve’s eyes, and Bucky answered it by pulling on Steve’s tie. Steve closed the distance, his mouth opening to Bucky’s.

Their kiss bloomed, their lips working together, and suddenly the only fire Bucky felt was the one deep in his belly as he tasted the honey of Steve’s lips. His hand tangled around Steve’s tie as they kissed, claiming him with tongue and teeth and ripened mouths and everything unspoken between them over a lifetime.

Steve pulled back, shivering, and drew an unsteady breath. “That was . . .”

“Not unpleasant?” Bucky teased him with a faint laugh.

Steve grinned. “I was going to say long overdue.”

Bucky’s expression darkened as another distant rumble echoed through the room. Too long he’d ignored this; too long he’d buried it in his darkest corners. But Steve’s soul was twisted around his own like the roots of two stubborn weeds. He should have known that what he felt, Steve felt too.

Even if this thing slithering inside him changed that, if it ate him all away . . . At least in this moment, he was still Bucky. He was Steve’s.

He slid from under Steve’s arm and climbed into his lap, knees to either side of Steve’s hips. Steve’s hands gripped his thighs as Bucky loomed over him. Forehead to forehead, Bucky slid his hands under the shoulders of Steve’s officer’s jacket, so heavy with medals, and tugged it off of him, their eyes locked, their pulses quickening. Bucky leaned in for another kiss as he began to thumb open the buttons of Steve’s shirt.

“Bucky . . .” Steve breathed against his mouth.

Bucky’s hands hesitated, hovering over the final button at Steve’s navel. His head was spinning, blood draining, traveling down. “Do you want this?” Bucky whispered.

Steve nodded. Hoarsely, he said, “I want all of you.”

 _Not all of me._ Bucky flinched. Not the rot those monsters put in his veins. But Steve didn’t know, or didn’t understand. “Do you trust me?” Bucky asked.

“With my life.”

He shucked Steve’s shirt away, though he left the olive green tie in place. The smooth expanse of Steve’s chest and the firmness of his abdomen, gilded in the candlelight, carved a V down to his belt, begging Bucky to explore. He kissed Steve again, then dragged his lips down, savoring the faint taste of salt on Steve’s skin as his mouth settled on the sharp muscle around his collarbone.

Steve’s hands moved up Bucky’s thighs as his eyes rolled back and closed. Bucky felt himself straining against the button fly of his dress uniform slacks. He felt . . . feral, uncontrollable, as every secret thought in the night he’d tried to smash away came rushing back to him. Steve tried to undress him, but his hands were unpracticed at it, and that red flushed his cheeks again.

“Sorry . . . I’ve never . . .”

Bucky closed his hands over Steve’s. “Let me help.”

Hands joined, Bucky unbuttoned his dress jacket and tossed it behind him, then loosened his tie and yanked it overhead. Steve bit his lower lip and reached for the buttons of Bucky’s fly, but first Bucky pressed Steve’s palm against his shaft, firm beneath the wool fabric. Bucky took his time undoing his belt and unbuttoning the fly, and shuddered when he was finally free.

“Lie back,” Bucky murmured.

Steve brought Bucky’s hand to his mouth and kissed it, sucking at his fingertips. Bucky’s muscles clenched in response, and he groaned. With a grin, Steve scooted back on the narrow mattress and turned to lie on it lengthwise.

After Bucky stripped out of his slacks, he crouched over Steve, straddling him, and lavished kisses on his stomach. Bucky’s pulse was hammering now, reminding him of what lurked inside, but for once it felt like a gift and not a curse. If knowing what was coming for him was the push he needed to confess to Steve, so be it. He’d pay the price another day for one perfect night.

He worked Steve’s belt and fly open and tugged away his slacks. Steve’s cock was thick, weighty in his hand as he curled his fingers around it, and Steve’s hips rocked forward and he let out a moan drowned out only by the sound of distant bombs. Bucky slid his hand against it, slow and careful, the way he’d do to himself while imagining something like this. Then he crouched forward and flicked his tongue against the head.

Steve clenched a fistful of sheets and bucked his hips upward, the bed creaking violently. It wasn’t built to withstand someone like Steve, much less Bucky’s weight on top of it. “Careful,” Steve whispered.

Bucky looked up at him through his lashes and smirked.

His mouth slid down onto Steve’s shaft so easily, instinct taking over, tongue tracing against the veins. Steve shuddered again beneath him as Bucky pressed his fingers around the base. He took his time gliding his lips up and down, savoring the sticky-sweet taste of Steve in his mouth and guiding him toward his throat. The world rattled around them, but nothing mattered, nothing mattered but the way Steve whimpered and threaded his fingers in Bucky’s hair. Like if he didn’t hold on, the moment would evaporate like a dream.

“Buck,” Steve whispered, gripping his hair tighter. “Buck, I can’t last much longer.”

Bucky trailed his mouth off of Steve’s cock and looked up at him with heavy eyes. “So do it.”

“But it’s okay if I—”

Bucky answered with a sharp and forceful suck.

Steve’s hips lifted up off the bed as his thighs tensed and locked. His taste filled Bucky’s mouth, hot, at once salty and sweet. Bucky closed his eyes and swallowed as Steve’s grip tore at his hair, then gradually eased off.

Bucky wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and sat up on his knees. The candlelight caressed Steve’s face, sated and serene, like a goddamned angel as he smiled. Fuck, he didn’t deserve this. He could never hold on to this god—any life they could have had together was gone. But he had this. Until the fire snapped his bones and turned him to ash, he wanted nothing else.

He kissed a sloppy path up Steve’s stomach again and let himself be pulled into Steve’s arms for a hungry kiss. Bucky’s teeth caught Steve’s lower lip, and he sucked, possessive. As Steve grinned, he ran a hand down the length of Bucky’s side and cradled Bucky’s erection, his clumsiness far outweighed by eagerness to please. Just the brush of Steve’s fingers sent stars sparking behind Bucky’s eyes.

“I want to please you, too,” Steve said, warm breath tickling Bucky’s ear. “But I’m not sure how.”

Bucky’s teeth clicked together as the sensation of Steve’s touch overwhelmed him. He drew a ragged breath, spit into his palm, then reached down between them. “Here. Like this.” It was his turn to blush, now. “I want to look at you.”

Steve’s eyelids fluttered as Bucky worked the moisture between Steve’s thighs, then tucked his cock into the space there. His hips rotated, finding his rhythm, figuring out the way their bodies fit together, Steve’s legs of stone against Bucky’s rough-hewn ones, stomach to stomach, face to face. As he found a pace, Steve tensed his thigh muscles in response.

Steve cupped one hand around Bucky’s ass and gripped it, sending a sharp spike of pleasure up Bucky’s spine. His mouth crushed against Steve’s as the friction of his shaft against Steve’s thighs pushed him closer to the brink.

Supporting himself on his right arm, Bucky seized the tie Steve still wore in his left and pulled at it. Harder. Harder, like the pain pressing up against him, eating him alive. If he was going to be consumed, then he would take Steve with him, forever locked in their stolen moment.

Their mouths were dangerous, teeth sharp with lust and old bruises and instincts too long repressed. Bucky’s thrusts sent shockwaves through the flimsy bed. Nearby, so close it sent concrete dust cascading down on them, another explosion thudded through the bunker. Red swam in Bucky’s vision. He tasted iron in his mouth, in Steve’s mouth, and he wanted to taste more. He wanted Steve, he needed Steve, he needed to cling to him and cling to himself—

He cried out as he came, back arching and hips digging against Steve’s. Steve’s fingers dug into his back, grounding him. Bucky’s vision blurred and he sagged forward, releasing the tie. He cradled his head against Steve’s shoulder and caught his breath.

When he raised his head back up, the look on Steve’s face—smiling, serene, dumbstruck—shattered him.

Bucky dragged his fingers down Steve’s face, trying to smear away that look, then followed with his lips. His throat felt parched and his muscles ached, but he burned and burned inside, not ready to let Steve go. He’d build a wall around them if he could, if it meant keeping Steve safe. If the real monster wasn’t already inside of him.

“Jesus,” he muttered, voice slurred with exertion. “Why are you so fucking good and pure? Why can’t I have you for my own?”

It was the wrong thing to say, and Bucky knew it, but he couldn’t hold it in any longer. He’d used up all his energy holding this _thing_ in him at bay. He never wanted to untangle himself from Steve. He’d never give him back to the rest of the world, if he could help it. But he knew that wasn’t a choice.

Steve pulled one arm tight around Bucky and with the other, cupped his face. “Is that what you want?”

Bucky worked his jaw from side to side. “It’s not what’s best for you.”

Steve watched him for a moment, eyes dark once again. “I love you, Buck.”

Bucky glanced down.

“I’ve always loved you. Probably since we were teens, maybe even before.” His nose brushed against Bucky’s cheek. “I wish it could have always been like this. And if you asked me—I’d want it to stay like this still.”

 _I can’t remember a time when I didn’t love you,_ Bucky thought, but he couldn’t bring himself to say it. “No, you don’t.”

“Of course I do.” A tiny crease appeared between Steve’s brows. “Better late than never, but . . .”

“Steve. No.” Bucky rolled off of him and over to one side, wedged between Steve and the wall. “You got your ass kicked enough when we were growing up. And now . . .”

Steve turned toward him, away from the candlelight, darkness swallowing up his face. “Now what, Buck?”

“Now you’re everyone’s hero. Your life—it isn’t your own anymore. Can’t you see?”

Steve’s mouth opened to protest, but even he couldn’t find the words.

Bucky curled his fingers against Steve’s chest. “They want to parade you around, send you around the globe, make a goddamned messiah out of you. You belong to the government now.” He swallowed. “And they would never let you—I mean, if it ever got out—”

 _That you loved a man. That I loved you like this, that I would do all these things and so much more with you, with no regrets._ He couldn’t say it, he still couldn’t say it. The words were coated in all the venom his pops used to spew. In the glint of Steve’s eyes, though, he knew Steve heard him.

“But if it mattered to me . . .” Steve brushed Bucky’s sweat-slick hair back from his brow.

“As long as they own you, you can’t.”

Another bomb tore through the night, and plaster shook down onto them. The stink of smoke and fear filled Bucky’s nose again, like some kind of sick siren song calling him back. He couldn’t let Steve ruin himself on Bucky’s account. Not when he was shredding himself up inside, waiting for the wolf’s jaws to close around his throat.

“Steve. Please.” Bucky planted a faint kiss on his lips. “We have tonight. And then tomorrow . . . and whatever tomorrow brings.” He tried to smile. “When it’s safe—on missions, maybe, or nights like tonight—”

Steve’s jaw twitched. “Yeah. Okay.”

“You know what people will say. How they would use me against you.” Bucky’s voice was strained and dry. “I’d never forgive myself if I did that to you.”

Steve stroked his thumb against the edge of Bucky’s ear. “For now. But after this is all over . . . Once we can go home from the war . . .”

Tears welled in Bucky’s eyes. There was no going home for him. This rot would consume him, or else it would send him charging headfirst into his death. He felt the violence like a barrel pressed into his back. He wanted to tear Hydra apart, and if it meant tearing apart himself, then he’d embrace it. End this agony.

He could never go home. He could never let the sickness inside him spread. And above all else, he could never infect Steve. But for the next few months, maybe, he could hold it at bay. Long enough to give Steve the love he deserved, if only for a time.

“Once we go home,” Bucky said thickly, “I’ll shout it from the top of the Empire State building.”

Steve grinned so wide that for a moment, Bucky could almost believe in it. He blinked, trying to clear the tears, and gave Steve his best smile in return. He’d hurt Steve enough in waiting this long. But Steve deserved a little happiness.

And maybe, while he still had the strength, the soundness of mind to hold onto Steve, he deserved some happiness, too.

Steve curled around him, arms warm and softer than any feather bed. The bombs rained down above them and the fire stoked inside him. But for one night, he’d held his love close and brought him some small fraction of the joy he was owed. For one night, Steve Rogers was his alone, and not the entire world’s.

If he could cling to one last thing before the darkness devoured him, then let it be Steve’s love.

Bucky closed his eyes and listened to the sound of Steve’s breathing until he drifted off.

 


End file.
